


Historical Revision

by atomicmayo



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Creativity, Episode: s02e14 Historical Friction, Fix-It, M/M, Pre-Slash, Writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15778113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicmayo/pseuds/atomicmayo
Summary: "I don't think you're a bad writer - I think you're a new one. That's a completely different thing."





	Historical Revision

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after 'Letters to Lars' and references 'Historical Friction'.

_Vzzzzt. Crunch._

"Yeah, yeah, I know you're low again." Bill murmured to the cash register, long fingers quickly ripping out the final piece of receipt tape from the small printer. He immediately hunched over it and began writing.

He didn't hear the jingling of the bell at the shop door - he had more pressing matters, as he was already was nearing the end of the piece of tape. Thoughts seemed to flow faster than his motor skills, hand cramping before he could write it all down. 

"Ugh, no - can't assassinate the prime minister, not yet," he scribbled out a line or two and tried re-writing something in the few bits of space left. A bead of sweat broke out at his brow as he fought to make the block-print of his handwriting small enough to fit everything in, twisting phrases into the nooks and crannies of every available bit of space.

"Oh my gosh... has to leave the baby in the farmhouse. Give herself up for the cause so they can live..." he said to himself in just above a whisper, voice cracking with emotion ever so slightly.

A polite cough made him jump and he abruptly shoved the final piece of receipt tape and all the previous pieces he had taken into his back pockets. A papery tail feather plumage crinkled and jiggled behind him as he quickly switched into _interacting with the public_ mode.

"Hello, Jamie! What can I get you?"

Jamie pointed at a relatively fresh looking maple bar in the case and put a bottle of orange juice on the counter - familiar actions, although today they were accompanied with a look of friendly curiosity.

"Writing something?"

Bill laughed nervously as he bent down to the case to grab the doughnut.

"Ah, saw that, did you? Well, yes. Just a little idea in my head, silly really," he gibbered. 

"It's been slow in the shop and my imagination has been wandering a bit," he added, something in his tone vaguely apologetic.

Jamie smiled and glanced at the receipt tape waving behind Bill as he counted out the change and pushed the cash drawer shut. The register clunked and the wheel inside the receipt printer spun helplessly for a couple seconds. 

"I hope you don't mind the lack of a receipt – the tape just ran out.”

Jamie shook his head and tucked the change into his pocket.

"You seemed really into whatever you were working on. What's it about?" He asked.

Bill's already pinkish skin darkened around his cheeks. He found a bit of dried frosting on the counter and focused on scraping at it with his thumbnail. "Oh, uh - just a sort of political drama... thing. I know my writing is pretty bad, I'm sure you would find the details boring."

Jamie turned to glance out the windows and saw the heat waves rising menacingly. The sweat at the back of his neck had already cooled in the short time he had been in the air conditioning. He cracked open the seal on the bottle of orange juice and the noise made them both realize how quiet the shop was.

"To be honest, I finished my route early and I just have to walk back to my truck... in ninety-five degree heat. And hey! The story can't be that bad. If you want I can give you feedback on what you have so far," he offered, gesturing to one of the plastic tables at the opposite end of the shop.

The man behind the counter squared his shoulders and took a breath, his stare fixed just over Jamie's left shoulder.

"You're welcome to stay as a paying customer of course, and I appreciate the offer, but after the historical play I wrote a while back that you changed...?"

Bill chuckled out of habit - the kind of polite, deflective tic that caused the tiniest stab of sadness in Jamie's chest. 

"Well, thanks anyway. I think it's pretty clear my writing isn't worth it," he finished with a crumpled, defeated smile.

Jamie's eyes widened in despair and he opened and closed his mouth for a second, fighting for words.

“You know that isn't true.”

“It sort of is, though. You thought so.” Bill replied. There was no heat in the remark, just a simple, resigned statement of fact.

Jamie sighed.

"Bill," he said, a little exasperated. Jamie had never called Bill by his first name before and something about it was just intimate enough to pull him back into a nervous eye contact.

"Did you ever try writing anything before the play?"

Bill frowned at the question. Frosting now freed from the counter top, he shoved his hands into his pockets to keep himself from fidgeting.

"No, I get ideas all the time, but when I actually try to write something I only get down a page or two and then throw it out."

Jamie tilted his head slightly and thought for a moment.

"You know why I went with Pearl's and Steven's changes, right?"

"Oh yes - don't get me wrong, I'm glad you changed it! And I still believe you deserve the position I gave you at the community theater.” 

Bill made sure to keep eye contact with the man in front of him as he finished, feeling he at least owed Jamie his honesty if he was going to refuse his help.

"I don't regret what happened that night at all. It's just..."

"You still feel like you failed." Jamie offered quietly.

"As mayor? No, not that night, anyway. But at any attempt at being a good writer?" 

Bill dropped his gaze and shrugged his shoulders, making him look a little smaller. His voice had lowered in a way that made Jamie want to wince.

"Yeah, kind of," he mumbled.

Jamie paused and furrowed his brow, gears working in his head.

"I don't think you're a bad writer - I think you're a new one. That's a completely different thing."

He fished around in the mail bag slung over his shoulder for a few seconds and eventually pulled out a smallish, spiral-ringed notebook. It was a cheap-but-cheerful deep blue with a wandering doodle in black ink in the top corner - the kind of filled in swirls someone would make during a lull in a workday, or while trapped in a boring phone call.

"I have to keep a record of when I can't deliver someone's mail," he gestured with it in his hand and it gave a slight wobble. He quickly opened it, ripped out the first couple pages filled with names and addresses, and handed Bill the now blank notebook.

"You can have it. Probably not as expensive as writing a novel on receipt tape."

Bill stared down at it as it rested in his hands, running his thumb over the doodle in the top corner without thinking. He could feel the indentations in the cardboard where Jamie had been drawing.

"Thank you." He said softly.

"You're welcome," Jamie replied, matching Bill's tone, "but I have one condition in order for you to keep it." 

"What's that?"

"Write. Write down every idea for your story you can come up with."

Bill gaped at him and flailed a little. "I can't do that - it's going to be a bunch of garbage!"

"A lot of it will be!" Jamie replied excitedly.

"Hey!" Bill snapped back at first, but there was a laugh in Jamie's voice that made Bill quickly realize he had misread – it wasn't an insult, but an insight.

"A lot of the stuff you write is going to be awful, but keep going. Don't let me changing your play, or the other times you might have thrown stuff out, or anything else stop you."

Jamie rested his hands on the counter and leaned in a little, his gaze intense. Bill felt slightly trapped somehow, but didn't put any more space between them to get away.

"Fill it up with ideas. When it's full, look up the Ocean Town writer's workshop..."

Bill was nodding now and finished the sentence for him, a wave of nauseous inevitability rising and falling in the pit of his stomach at the thought.

"They'll tell me what works and what doesn't, and then I start over...?" 

"Exactly. And out of the garbage? Some of it will be good! You keep it, re-write all the rest, and do it all again.”

"And I'll improve?" Bill asked weakly.

Jamie nodded at him with satisfaction. Hope twinkled in his dark eyes. 

"I know you'll improve," he finally straightened up from the counter and re-adjusted his mail bag. 

"You have potential, it wouldn't be fair to yourself to shove it in your back pockets and hide it away."

He turned to walk out the door, leaving Bill staring down at the notebook pensively.

"I'm going to leave so you'll be alone to write. I think I can make it to the truck okay,” he said before taking a sip from his orange juice and pushing the door open.

"Jamie?" Bill called from across the shop.

"Yes?"

"If I'm able to fill it up completely, I'll let you read it. Just..."

"It's okay, Bill. I'll be gentle." He said with a grin as he walked out.

Bill's face was suddenly warm despite the air conditioning, but he had time to figure that out later. He unfurled the receipt tape from his back pockets, opened the cover of the notebook, and began transcribing. 

The receipt printer beeped in protest at the lack of paper in it. Bill thunked it lightly without looking up, and kept working.


End file.
